Just as much as I could
by Bony Hearts
Summary: In the miserable darkness of this life, you're my light, my dear prostitute. AU - Slash. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Pairing: CanUk (MathewxArthur)  
**

**Warning: Swearing, suggested themes in later chapters and as always, typos...  
**

**Discailmer: I own nothing, this is just a pure production from fan to fan.  
**

* * *

**JUST AS MUCH AS I COULD**

**-XXX-  
**

He walked as the dark reigned his surrounding, snickering in its own amusement from the very filthy corners of the ugliest part of the city. The paling silver moon shone down the street paralyzed-y and weakly, so quickly overshadowed by the dim light produced from the street lamp. And he almost wanted to smirk at its piteousness.

[**His piteousness**]

Mathew didn't know why he came here, venturing around like an angry lost dog whilst his nostrils were full of the smell of misfortune and misery, of sins and poverty mingling in the air. He oh so wanted to vomit, to shuddered at the dirty touches of the even dirtier atmosphere on his skin; but his mind and his body's desire whirling inside lusted for everything disgusting, disgraceful and temptingly guilty to squeeze and strangle him to dead.

His heart pounded in his ribcage ever so calmly, betraying his cautious dark blue eyes. Every step he took seemed to be heavier, murkier and more scared. Yet the more reluctant his pace was, the more determined he felt. He kept going, deeper and deeper into the intimidatingly welcoming night of the foreign district.

His obsessive mother would never let him go to this part of the city, saying it were an outcast of this beautiful world, sheltering so many dishonor and sinful people who had stupidly crossed the line that God mercifully drew for human. Clean people like her, her sons, her husband or everyone from the same high class shouldn't (mustn't) set foot there; because she thought her eyes, their eyes, would bleed at the scene they might see, the beautifully rich big nose she owned, their owned, would sneer at the air they breathed, and dirtied were her hands, their hands, when she showered those people with her disgusting generosity.

But she never knew. How could she know? When she was too elegant to care.

So much energy would be taken if she lifted her ridiculously well-care brows in distaste and fake worry.

Aimlessly he went, hearing shouts from cramped houses, barks of bony dogs, seeing hungry eyes with growling mouths target him in sick interest and curiosity from a group of criminal-like men.

Scars [ugly], skinheads [too sweaty and raw], cigarettes [smoky, so cheap], jaws [hard and square], teeth [far too yellow, being bared to make unfriendly noises].

He felt his breath rushing, his hair shamefully stand on end, his eyes darting around as if a cornered animal, his lip hurt under the impact of his bite. His hands pulled the coat that covered his school uniform close to his slightly shivering self.

_Breathing in. _

His legs quivered but ready.

_Breathing out._

Dark colored irises were on the tenterhooks keeping looking back at the approaching shadows.

_Breathe. Breathe._

Matt ran. Just running for the sake of his hateful life. Footsteps were harder and harder to be heard as he ran as fast as he could. His throat was burning and tightened as though a rope was wrapping around it tightly; his lungs were crying in the lack of delicious oxygen; his eyebrows were strained with heavy sweats. He didn't dare to breathe, didn't dare to look where he ran to even though the prior sounds of chasing seemed to have already died down.

[_Too much. Too much._]

And in all of a sudden he slipped, falling hard on his stomach and face to the ground. He felt like being punched and slapped as the same time, his upper part shaking as he slowly caught up with his breathing rhythm, endeavoring to calm his hammering chests down, trying to push himself off of the astonished state.

Clumsily he sat up, wiped his aching nose and immediately hissed when it was stinger and wetter than he had first thought. His right thumb was stained with a little bit of blood.

Damn it, he cursed and already imagined the picture in which he tried to lie to his dear mother where the shit that bloody nose came from. Not amusing at the very least. Because, surely, he would just want to slam the wooden door into her accusing, pretty face after shouting at her to fuck off. Oh, how he wished he could do all those, without an endlessly boring and threatening lecture accompanied by a stony slap from his darling father.

Gritting his teeth, he stood up and shook his head several times to clear his foggy head, causing his mild-curly blond hair to sway and his glasses to glide down to the tip of his damaged nose. He was absently wiping his clothes when a short laughing-like snort stole his attention.

He hurriedly looked up to be greeted by a man. A small crook smile painted his full, red lips, somehow having provoked the young boy in its strangely mocking way. Mathew narrowed his eyes but undoubtedly stared at the man's feature – A cheap old white jacket, which was obviously faded to the darker shade, covered his oversize strong blue T-shirt just to the waist and helplessly shown the rest that loosely reached pass the zip of his tight black jean to the world; two high black boots finished the scene.

Matt noticed he seemed to gather up his weight to his left leg, proving he had been standing here for a good while. His back and shoulders hanged down oh so slightly, almost able to fool Mathew's observing eyes [yet no such luck], displaying their owner's worn-out state. But the blue eyed boy was impressed that the man held his head, with no needed efforts or affected manners, high and dignified, which right away threw all chances for Matt to look down at him out of the window.

Without saying anything, the seventeen-year-old boy walked to the lamp street the man was standing under. He could see his sandy blond hair damped with the pathetic artificial light and his lock shadow his pair of eyes a little, creating a sharp look to his deep, deep green gazes that never left Mathew's figure. All of the man profile were screaming defensive, unwelcome and daring. But Matt just ignored them all together.

The glare the boy was receiving became more and more intense the closer he got to him. He found the need to smirk at the man's start when he sat down with redundantly heavy contact with the pavement, not caring if his expensive layer of clothing got dirty.

The man snorted again, annoying him to no end. "What are you doin' 'ere, chap? Boys like you shouldn't come to this part of all places. Try to be adventurous and shit, huh?"

This time it was Matt to snort. The green-eyed man clicked his tongue, pulling out a cigarette and then a light after his pissed searching through various pockets of his. The smoke from the lit cigarette danced into the night like illusion, now and then joined with the same poisonous gas blown out expertly by the man himself. Emerald eyes flicked back and forth, right to left while the man's arms crossed against his chest. The ashen substance fell down, swept away into nothingness.

Mathew's orbs found themselves unable to leave the pink and orange flame patiently engulfing the pinch of tobacco. His mind finally clicked.

"You're a prostitute, aren't you?" He said, no surprise, no implication. Purely a statement of fact.

The blond man barely shrugged, "Take you long enough." Matt looked at his casual carelessness weirdly. The boy just expected something else entirely different. Matt opened his mouth, though closed it briefly when he caught a flash of bitterness in those vivid eyes. He bit his bottom lip, chewing it in sudden awkwardness and guilt.

"Nay," heard his ears and Mathew couldn't help gazing up from his sitting position. He saw the man glare down at him with a very, very tiny forgiving smile. Was it weird that he felt like blessed? "It's bloody nothing. Don't tire yourself out with bleeding nonsensical worries." He told Matt, dropping his half-smoked cigarette near where the boy sat unmoving from the beginning; an eyebrow was lifted as the man watched his younger, unexpected 'company' brought the fallen cigarette up to his eyes.

The sandy hair man stepped away right when a car pulled up beside him. He looked back at Matt, who had stopped his observation and locked eyes on the prostitute again. "Throw it away, don't try to smoke, it'll kill ya later, kid." He warned and turned his attention to whom Mathew guessed to be his client.

The young boy watched them converse, catching those dirty, lewd things that passed the prostitute's lips. He was surprised at being satisfied whilst contemplating the man as though he could capture him all just with his dark orbs, and at trying to assure himself that it was only an act for the man's 'career' [He didn't know why he cared. But the man he met tonight was definitely not that kind of slut. Not that he knew any other kinds. Yet this person seemed to be especially different…]

The sound of car door slamming snapped Mathew out of his thought. He quickly raised his head, looking the car rolled away into the pitch-black night street. He craned his neck like he was hoping to see something, but he saw none.

He gazed down at the almost-dying cigarette; the flaming blobs were so wan. He brought it to his lips. Inhaling.

Which resulted in a round of coughs and left a sweetly bitter taste lingering in his mouth.

* * *

The woman who gave birth to him was paranoid and obsessed with her own soul and her own blind belief. His mother always thought that she was good, even when she had pushed a servant girl down the stairs for staining her bible book and called her a worthless witch. [The girl ended up in hospital without any money or jobs. And his mother had made sure no one would hire her after that in this city as a worthy punishment.] She was so cleanly elevated that she couldn't stand her children playing in the mud. She would punish them afterward with her wooden ruler, pinching their chubby cheeks far too roughly, slapping their hands and legs until they turned red and too swollen to work properly.

[But they had to, had to walk with heads held high despite their abused childish legs which made them bite so hard into their inner checks in a vain attempt to stop the pain. They had to hold those glistening fountain-pens that they had received as some practical presents, even though their fingers ached so badly. The hard mental surface pressed against their red, shaking palms while they wrote on their home-schooling papers, making them scared of it. Causing them to become some young adults having a pen-haunt.]

Even her nail had been his phobia since he was a mere toddler. [Too red, to clean, too sharp]. He still remembered the feeling of having them dig into his back, his arms or his face whenever she wanted to make her points clear with a sugary smile for persuasion. Yet nowadays she could hardly do so, for he always smartly avoided being near her hand-reach.

Or sometimes, avoiding being with her presence as much as possible.

However, she had a hobby of disappointing him and crushing his rotten luck. Just like now, with her eyes fixing on him from where she were standing next to her favorite tea table, she asked, "**Where **have you been, Mathew dear?"

Keeping a well safe distance, he secretly cringed at her purely dark green fingernails, answering, "No-" He flinched when his mother, who had unnoticing-y came closer, planted her hand on his arms pitching her nails into his bare skin. "Don't dare lie to me, young boy!" Matt bit back a hiss as she unforgivingly dug deeper.

He gritted his teeth strongly, making an effort not to bend her arm over and break it in satisfaction. Instead he shook her hands away, which didn't forget scratching him along the way, leaving angry half-moon marks and long scratched trails.

He looked down at the woman like she was a mad animal and went upstairs, ignoring her furious screams. He found the door across his room was left ajar, light on. He held all of his breath in his chest and hurriedly walked pass it, determined not let his eyes glance inside that room.

[**Not now.**]

He closed his own door, standing in silence. His arm felt numbly sting.

Mathew let his irises hidden by his eyelashes, sucking and moving his tongue to find anything left of that nicotine bitterness in his wet cavern.

* * *

His eyes were locking on the black board which was tattooed with white letters and numbers. His pencil tapped in a very slow rhythm._ Tap_. His note was blank, since there was no need to write down things he had already known too well. _Tap._

He glanced at the seat next to him – Empty. Behind, no occupants. In front of, the first two tables were left inhabited and the third eventually had two of his classmates – who never had the desire to take a look at him.

_Tap._

He truly had no social life. No friends.

[He had had once, long ago – a fury white dog he found abandoned in the rain one day and named Kumajirou. In his blurry memory of six-year-old, he remembered those little paws held onto his pants or socks begging him to play together, those excited barks welcoming him and Alfred home, that tiny pink tongue licking his face lovingly and days that four fast short legs running after the two laughing boys...

Until one afternoon he discovered his pet, his closest friend, had gone missing. How panicky he had been when no familiar barks answered his desperate calls. How surprised and terrified he had felt when Alfred found a dark red ribbon of his puppy in the garden, near the lake. How horrified when his big blue eyes caught his mother watching them, a strange glint flashing in her cerulean orbs. How dark everything surrounding him seemed to be, his heart shattered and crumbled under his feet.

How much he had wept that night and how tightly Alfred had embraced him to comfort while drowning in his own salty tears.]

In his childhood time his parents had considered it was best to solitude him and Alfred from the outside world, cutting off any chances for friendships. Though Alfred always knew how to sneak out and come back in time before their parents could come home from some business trips.

Dirty clothes would be washed, cuts from playing would be treated and lies would be covered by their sympathetic servants and that kind old man of a butler. [Although he died when the two brothers reached twelve from some sorts of lung diseases, which Alfred had loudly doubted to Matt maybe their father's smoking habit was the cause. However, neither of the boys dared to voice out any words, even if their father choked them to dead with his cigars. Perhaps he could have done so if they had really said it.]

But then again, Alfred was the one who went around making friend and introduced him along. Even though Mathew knew he would be shadowed by his brother bright smile right away, he enjoyed every single moment they got out of that prison they called home.

They continued their sneaking adventures till they were both sent to a famous private school.

Life had been easy at first, the twin quickly befriended with some other students. How happy they'd been as they rejoiced their short freedom. Yet Mathew acknowledged that that freedom was not enough, not satisfactory to Alfred. His brother had always had an obsession with anything to do with liberty; he fought for it greatly and held it in such a passionate passion.

Matt had realized that light, that calculating and longing light of Alfred's eyes whenever he planned on something.

[_"Mattie, I will go." – So determined. So brave. So ideal. __**So stupid**_.]

And in the end his brother had paid deeply for the freedom he desired and loved.

[_"Idiot," his hand were_ _so cold, so cold,__** so cold**__. __**So lonely**__. "How about me now?" So lonely. So dark._ _**Dark.**__ "What about me…?"_]

So then Mathew was scared, afraid to make friends. It was like a taboo to him. And somehow he felt as if he was paranoid himself.

_Tap._

He tongue traced along his teeth.

_Tap._

He taste-bud was craving for something. So desperately.

* * *

"What the bloody hell are you doing here again?" Mathew raised an eyebrow then shrugged his shoulders ["Who knows?"]. He heard a huff and plainly paid it no mind. [Truth to be told, he really had no clue why he came back to this dangerous, dirty place just to see the man again even when he surely knew the chance was slim. It had been two weeks since their first encounter – An enough amount of time to make strangers forget each other. And who could tell whether the prostitute worked on the same spot or not.

So he had secretly praised himself for not jumping up and down in weird merriness when he saw him standing there like they'd first met (or smiling in strange relief, self-satisfaction and happiness because the pros still remembered him), instead putting on an indifferent practiced face. Trying his best not to satisfied-y smirking at the elder's started reaction when he returned to his previous position just like that night with, again, an unnecessarily hard impact of his butts with the filthy ground.]

The air was dry and cold, seeming to be in a rather bad mood. The boy hugged his coat closer; his school bag felt heavy as though it was the one who was tired, trying to push back him while he himself demandingly pressed it against the brick wall behind his back. His arms rested on his two ankles, mindlessly toying with the material of his uniform pants.

"You should go home kid, wandering in this area ain't safe," Mathew looked up at the prostitute who was leaning against the forever-good-and-loyal street lamp, brows knitting together in anxious annoyance, red full lips pulling into a thin line, eyes gazing out not meeting the boy's ones.

Mathew licked his lips, "Why don't you smoke anymore? It's seemed to me you really need a quick one." He asked, mentally astonished at being expectant.

"None of your business" was his grumpy feedback. Matt watched silently as the blond hair man impatiently switched from foot to foot, arms crossed tighter and eyes more narrowed. "Then I'm not goin', eh," he was happy at the surprised attention he was getting, "It's none of your business." He added, smiled when the prostitute's eyes grew wide and the older man quickly averted them in disbelieving anger, biting down his bottom painfully.

Mathew sat there, patiently observing. "Tell me your name and I will leave." Said he calmly. Silence came and calculating reluctance overtook the questioned man. But Matt's eyes held him onto place, leaving no escapes. "Arthur. My name's Arthur, and now go."

The boy shook his head; Arthur looked sharply at him, ready to retort. But the younger male was faster, "Why do you care anyways? For things that can happen to me?" Mathew could feel the man stiffen and his dark blue orbs gropingly searching Arthur's profile. "You worry too much, for a man like you" – He continued in his usually soft tone, but every spoken work was firm.

Green eyes were furious, though he just waited for an answer, unaffected. "**Don't** talk to me in such a tone,** brat**. You don't know a fucking thing about me, so **bugger off**!" Mathew stood up harshly, his face turned into a sudden rare stony scowl towards the man. "You can't tell me what I have to do." Threat possessed his voice.

"Aye! I bloody fucking can! Get your stubborn arses **home**! You don't know what can happen in this place!" - Why are you so restless? Nobody cares before [except Alfred], now and after. But why are you?

"It's **not** home" – Never breaking eye-contact, Mathew said as though he wanted so desperately to correct the man, his inside burning, as if screaming and crying. The sentence was heavy and hard like an inevitable truth. He could see the reflection of his darkly flaming eyes on those emeralds. Just wanted to swallow all and end everything by a blink of eyes.

The night had become blacker and blacker, thickened with dread silence and inhumane empty white threats. The prostitute's warnings, pretty painted nails, the room across his own, no-man-land tables, questionable feelings…

But standing here with a man he only met twice – who made a living out of a scowled-upon job; who, to his mother, should be dragged into Hell; whose name was craved deep into his mind, forever unforgotten – and staring in Arthur's warm, angry pair of eyes, he found no fears.


	2. Chapter 2

**X-X-X**

The faint opera music floated in the air, produced by an antique-tic gramophone in the large dining room. Mathew had never understood this kind of high and delicate musical art. He found it too complicated and deep for him to bear.

Every time he was caught in an high note of anger, encouragement and thirsty desires to fight; his head felt crazy, like a storm crawling and shrieking, waiting for the moment it could break through the wall – high and mad to destroy everything it loathed. Every time he was pulled into a stream of low bass wailing for sorrow and death and life; his throat burn as if some cruel men set fire in there, choking him with smoke and thick as though ton of stones weighed it down, sharp and heavy enough to rip the part apart. Every time the music offered him a peaceful tone; his teeth would bare in disgust and incredulity; because it was like laughing and mocking at the reality, provoking soul rather than calming it.

But as he was sitting at the long dining table, with expensive flowery table cloth, flames set from the egging–white candles, dancing like weak dead souls under the mockingly charming light of the chandelier right above, silvery forks, knifes and spoons, red, blue, purple flowers in the china vase in the middle; he could heard the opera sound so calm, so calm that it didn't provoke him like normal, yet rather brought him a vaguely dread feeling.

The singer voice was so sweet, singing like describing a beautiful and comfortably off town – markets were crowed with food and richness, fields were endless and fat with green and yellow, people with smiles, friendliness and excitement… He could see them all when he close his blue hues to let his artistic sense and imaginations run wild.

He could tell the pride implied in every note, and he would have grinned if he hadn't caught the performer's voice slowly turned low and faint. Like a transition.

The servants around bow their head to greet the new comers and immediately, Mathew straightened his posture.

[The tone returned to its normal sonority in a slow motion.]

He held his head in an average level, not too smug but still prideful and respectful. His father walked past him, ironed black pants and pearly white shirt tucked in neatly with a mild-golden silk handkerchief fold in his left breast pocket, and sat in his head–chair.

[Grimier and grimier.]

Heads were bent a little deeper. His mother must have just stepped in. But his ears noticed something else and his fingertips ditched into the wooden chair-handles.

[More and more uninterruptedly and fast.]

Wheels collided with the brown-red carpeted floor, making silent rustling sounds. He held his breath, his heart pounding hard, scared, like it could burst in any second. His nails clutched harder, so much enough to draw out blood. His eyes stared ahead, unchanged as his father turned around from a small conversation with the new butler to glance at him - Daring him.

Mathew listened to the footsteps of his mother stopped near where he was, opposite with her seat. He found his legs weakened and slightly shook under the table – which he was glad for. A big sweat formed itself behind the back of his neck, rolling down his spine with an invisible deadly cold shiver. No doubt he would have to change his beaten, sweaty shirt tonight.

The hostess finally sat down, and his father signaled for the servants to bring out food.

[Faster and thicker.]

Control. Control. Control yourself – His brain mumbled as food was served in his dish. Act normally. Act normally.

"Mathew, can you fix Alfred's napkin?" No. His muscles were stiff, his back soaked, his throat dry, his nostrils stuck, his eyes burning. No. Please. Please.** Please. Don't. **He turned to his right, calm facade; but every motion of his neck felt painful and for every turning millimeter his mind weeping and begging.

[Like shrieking and wailing. Between the harmonies, he heard warm laughter.]

Matt looked at Alfred, who was in a wheel chair looking over everything with blank, dark cerulean eyes. His brother sat there with a crooked and wrong done napkin, head tilting a little bit aside.

[Mathew could have laughed, because Alfred was always messy as though a child. Yet now things were different. No, they were the same, but just got worse. Much, much worse.

He would have laughed and then been shaken with tears whilst still laughing like mad. **Mad. **Afterward he would hiccup. Crying. Shouting. He would want to tear his hair out. He would want to die, over and over again.]

He reached out his hands, trying his best not to allow them to shake. There were stones in the pit of his stomach and sour throat. He realized he was no longer breathing. Alfred's cloth, clean and neat and nerdy, brushed pass his finger and he just wanted to rip all of it out off of his brother. Alfred was never fond of those kinds of clothing. He never like them, he would complain, he would frown, he would be sad. God, please, he despised them.

**Please.**

It felt like hours until the napkin was fixed. Matt settled in his seat again, his heart shattering everywhere but he didn't found the need to pick them up, just sitting and nobly devouring the food which tasted like ash and burnt sand.

As usual, his mother started first, always her, "So Mathew, I notice you've been acting strangely lately. And yesterday you came home late, dirty coat," she searched his face, but he didn't bother looking up at her. "What's wrong with you, Mathew dear?"

The gramophone had long been switched off. No opera. Almost silence with the clicking and clattering sound of metal and porcelain. Mathew gripped his silvery, glistening small knife tighter, whirling with thought of stabbing the woman. Still not making eye contact with his mother, he gazed over Alfred, watching the maid feeding him, sauce and crumble of food fallen out his mouth, staining his clothes. The corner of Mathew's mouth twitched up oh so slightly at the ruin garb.

Matt heard his mother asked the same question again and gripped his hand harder. His silence of disrespectfulness seemed to anger the woman and make his father raise his voice for the first time.

"Answer your mother's question, son."

Every word from that man's mouth was always stern and pressed, as if to show off his power over other. Mathew could hear the calm opera replaying faintly in his head. His darker blue hues looked at his brother's.

Alfred's orbs were paler, so soulless, so lifeless, and so dark. **Dark. **[And somehow, in the back of his mind, he saw a spark of green.]

"I SAID ANSWER THE QUESTION, SON!"

Never flinching despite the fear deep inside his body, he turned to his father, never the woman to his left, contemplating each and every strain of gray hair. "Nothing is wrong with me, sir."

He dropped his knife and fork, stood up and glanced at Alfred once more before fleeing the dining room. Ignoring his father's demand "Mathew William Jones, get back here right now!" he walked fast through the hall, his heart beating quicker and quicker.

Finally reaching the front door, he ran.

* * *

His mind told him one thing, only one and everything else was just a blur, not important. He didn't remember taking a bus, sitting in there until the driver announced him it was the last station and getting off. He wandered, just like the day weeks ago, with his soul and heart broken.

But he was not an angry lost dog anymore, too exhausted to be angry, too acknowledgeable about where to go to be lost. Instead, right now, this very moment, he was greedy.

Exasperatedly and desperately so.

His surrounding was dark, artificial lights and clouded stars were not enough. He was in this part of town again, yet scared of it no longer. It was his turn to look around it hungrily, eyes darkened and wide. His footsteps bounced silently, mixing with other whispering kinds of sound. His inside was flustered like a squirrel in a cage with that strong and needy feeling. He wanted to feel it again – the bravery, the untouchable. He wanted himself to be like that again. To be with Arthur and fears would matter no more.

He felt sweet rolling down his forehead, sticking at his eyelashes, tracing down his nose and checks like tears. Tears he couldn't shed, tears he found none to share and soak in, even when he needed it. But he knew better than crying. It was too weak, too tiring, and he was dried of them long ago.

The familiar street lamp appeared in his eyesight, yet no tell tale of the man he wanted to see most. His hands shook and damp, his leg weakened, his mouth parted to breathe difficultly. He felt his head whirling, spinning. So…. so…. He couldn't even shout.

"No kidding, kid. You again…"

He didn't think if his head could turn round any faster or sharper. There he was, Arthur, standing before him in his usual outfits, green eyes looking at him, giving him life.

"Art…" – He breathed out, never so grateful in his living time. The prostitute stared at him in astonishment, then slight anger, and finally defeat. The older man shook his head, his way of saying "You're bloody stubborn, lad." Mathew found himself smile, at the movement or the relief rising in his chest, he didn't know for sure.

"You're here, Arthur. I thought you're gone. You're here," Matt said, stepping closer to the man, his voice low as though a whisper, as though he just reassured his own self.

Arthur didn't take his eyes off of him, having to slightly look up to meet his face. Some mere centimeters taller made Mathew proud. "What happened to you? You look…terrible, lad." Arthur asked, hesitantly, and Matt reminded himself to remember the worried hint of the pros' tone.

The soon-to-be-man boy refused to answer with his own head-shake. He came nearer to the green eyed man, holding both of his arms to prevent him from taking any retreating steps. He looked down at the furrowed eyebrows and confused emerald eyes; his dark blue orbs softened. There, right there, he had felt it again. How he needed it.

Oh, oh, how much that he had needed this.

Mathew's head found its way to one of Arthur's shoulder, resting and allowing him to breathe in his scent, just as much as he could. He heard Arthur sighed out, tired but patient and not unkind. "You keep doing this, I can't work, lad. Doomed me. Blasted you…"

Matt chuckled, hoarsely and genuinely, and Arthur somehow joined him shortly with a snort. "Now let go."

* * *

Never did he dream of coming to Arthur's house. Because from the beginning Mathew was just a stubborn and haunting stranger to the man. When Arthur said "let go", the younger of the two didn't think not only did it mean him letting the older man go, but also following him to his place.

Which he was surprised at, but not unhappy. Secretly excited even.

Arthur's house was just a cheap apartment in a running-down building. It could be described by three words: cramped, bare and wooden. A combination of one sink, one stove and one small wooden cabinet in the left corner made a kitchen. There was a wooden wardrobe near a wooden bed in the opposite side, which also had a door leading to a tiny bathroom.

Mathew looked around, not knowing where to sit down so he settled for the floor, beside the bed, leaning to the cracked wall behind. Arthur came sitting next to him, his back resting against the bed itself. He handed Matt a cup of tea, so warm in his two hands. Mathew could see Arthur, having his jacket taken out, hugged loosely by his shirt, making the man seem so lithe and thin. And just right then, the boy realized the real condition Arthur was in.

Guilt once more ate him up, causing him to look side-way, staring at the bed to distract himself. But it was a wrong move, because it was **really** distractive. Seeing untidy blanket, pillows and unruly bed-sheet, his brain jumped in the thought of what might possibly happened there. Arthur must have noticed his glance, for he stole Mathew attention again with an exhale, "I'm a prostitute, what do you think?"

The coldness and bitterness in the sentence made Matt cringed, his heart tightened. His brows knitted together, the brown liquid in his cup was never more interesting. What you do don't matter, I never belittle you, Arthur. He couldn't say that aloud, just helplessly thinking and keeping silent. And he found it frustrating.

The older man sighed again, his hues darted upwards, to the boring stained ceiling. "You know, lad," he started; Mathew raised his head and listened every word offered to him, "Life, sometimes, is not what we expect… Never to me, has it seemed. But, but just look out there…"

Arthur eyes remained where they were; up and faraway. "There is light out there, like stars always up in the sky, just waiting for us to find them…" Mathew felt he could see the night heaven reflecting in those green orbs, full of stars, of lights. The longing in the man's voice made Matt longed to hold him close. And in brief seconds, green was so bright, sandy was so golden, pale so pearly.

Matt knew he would see no lights, no stars, even when they shone so brightly. Because right in front of his eyes he had found one. The brightest of them all.

"I have found one," Mathew said, never looking at anything but Arthur. [If the man noticed the seriousness and firmness in his tone, he said nothing. Instead Arthur blinked, and then hummed in his throat, eyes not leaving his ceiling.]

* * *

The moist, stench and dirty smell wrapped up his nose, surprisingly not making him uncomfortable, but instead helping him relax. All of the degraded hallway was deserted, quiet and haunting as ghosts - totally opposite to the night sessions, Matt thought, when the stagger, tired people came home from their overtime working shift; the emaciated, drug addicted ones woke up from their disorder sleep, returning back to the dark present to be immersed in smoke, alcohol and sex again, to be suffocated in a dull, obscure haze rather than in a truculent, severe reality, where they had already died long ago.

He leant against the old wooden door behind, avoiding causing any noises; he didn't want to let Arthur know he was still here, in front of his apartment, listening to his moans. [He'd come back this afternoon, just to be pushed out by Arthur. While not completely hearing the man tell him to go home, he caught a glimpse of a man, slowly taking out his coat. And Mathew understood right away.]

He took a deep breath, the unpleasant odors no longer made him feel like vomiting, but letting him acknowledge that he was in somewhere far, far away from that house and closer to Arthur.

[Arthur, he was special, not knowing that he made ugly things become bearable and sometimes, unbelievably, beautiful.]

His cheek of the left side was still stinging, the red imprint remaining difficult to fade. Mathew didn't bother touching or checking it, which was created by his father with a slap in the face, which that disgusting scent of his lingered on.

[Oh yes, he hated those scents radiating from his father just as much as he did to everything that belonged to his dear mother. Mathew still remembered this morning clearly, remembering stepping into the main working room of his "venerable" father, Harriet William Jones, after his returning from Arthur's place.

Harriet's home-office, just like how he saw it many times prior, was filled with brown, black, too dark green and red shade. All of them were too powerful and brutal, oppressive and chill, even when they were hot colors. It felt like being burnt in hell fire, not dying of the heat of the flame, but of the icy-cold fear choking us before the fire could do anything.

Mathew recalled Harriet had been sitting on his polished leather chair, two hands stitched together, hovering about chin-level. Harriet was silent with a cold gaze – the usual gaze that he used to contemplate the running-mad world around him. And for the first time, Mathew realized how pitiful his mother had been and would always was.

The false smiles, the cerulean eyes that were full of possessiveness, having no warmth, the twisted heart, the obsessive soul were all because of not only her personalities, but also this man. Never had there been, not even once, a look of love or empathy between his father and mother.

For from the very first beginning, there was no love.

A marriage had no props, without love, creating two children born from coldness and apathy. But those kids were too different; they weren't like what their parents had thought, they were not the bitter, dried-up and vicious souls on this Earth. No, they were warm, innocent, eyes full of liveliness.

He remembered when he was five, first meeting his mother since the woman had been away from home for almost two years; the first time that he could memorize his mother's face clearly was the same time he was able to see her glances of hatred, jealousy, anger and disgust in those blue eyes he and Alfred were inherited. It was the first time he felt afraid of his own mother.

And in that moment, facing his father, Mathew'd found out how much all of it made sense.

A horrible sense. A disgusting sense.

Might have he broken down when he discovered the truth. But no, it only added to his long-lasted pain, making him hardened in his own languishing. He and Alfred, by some ways, had been living until now, literally. And he wouldn't let himself die easily till the day he finally knew what "living" was in its true meaning.

He'd met Arthur, and all that was enough for him to start again, if he could someday. With his brother, Alfred.

"Last night, you'd really disappointed me, son," – Harriet began, light and low. He glanced at Matt, like he was not worthy for his both eyes to turn and look wholly. Mathew didn't know what Harriet saw in his world. Did it have colors? Did it have any emotional shape? Did it include any one else but himself?

He watched his father rising from his black leather chair in a smooth movement, taking a few step towards him. And Mathew knew what would come after that. It was just different from before. It wasn't like in his childhood, on which he and Alfred together faced the snapping hands and icing gazes. It wasn't like when Alfred was in the hospital, unconscious and forever not aware of his plant life awaiting after the accident; he was too shocked, too helpless, too tired, too pained and too dead to care.

But it was different at that moment. Because he was facing his father alone, with a full mind and determined heart. What was to come he would deal with it, straight-faced. No running-away. No going back.

The impact of his father's slap hadn't lost its strength or its satisfaction of hurting someone, always enough to leave marks and sometimes, blood. Mathew slowly turned his head ahead from his sideways position because of it. His left cheek ached, burning red. Just like his eyes, but he kept that to himself.

"I don't feed you or teach you to disrespect this family. Any spoiled actions in my house are not allowed. You hear me, son?" – Mathew met Harriet's eyes, as even and as hard. Harriet narrowed his orbs, grey seeming to turn into black. "Be better, son."

Mathew's hands tightened around each other behind his back too tightly.

"Be better,"

"Be better, my dear son."]

Those teeth hidden in his mouth were gritted together; his eyes staring at the streak of light that stretched across the dark, lacked of power corridor, from the small window at the end of the range. The afternoon sunlight was weak, but excited, fiercely crimson and boldly yellow as a blazing flame shrieking, refusing to die. Mathew wondered if the blue of his hues was blazing like that.

He changed the position of his head, purposefully making his right ear pressed against the hard surface of the door. And Mathew listened to the sounds that reached him, muffled-y. He heard Arthur's bed creaking, hard thrusts and fake-pleased [pained] moans. He heard Arthur's tiny voice begging, whimpering. He heard some rough tones snapped back, satisfied and sadistically wanting more than what the prostitute could give, but had to. He closed his eyes, the slapping sounds of flesh making him sick to the very end of his being, causing his rip heart to be rip again, scratching and tearing and swallowing him up.

His Arthur…His Arthur… His beautiful, defiled Arthur…

_'I'm a prostitute, what do you think?'_

What did he think? [What did he think right now?]

_I love you Arthur, I love you._ He loved Arthur, he loved him, and he couldn't do anything. How he disgusted himself now.

It was like hours had passed by until there were footsteps coming closer to the door; automatically Matt moved away, sitting slightly next to it. It eventually opened and his ears caught heavy stepping sounds of leather shoes, which thundered in his brain, making him long to kill the man it belonged to.

Never had he wanted to murder a person more.

And oh, how wonderful it would be.

Pushing the thought aside when the pacing noise was out of his earshot, he immediately stood up and went straight into Arthur's apartment. Dark blue eyes fell onto the naked figure lying on bed, strangling with sheet.

The skin was pale, sweating, worn out and bitten. Arthur was curling into a ball, like making himself become smaller till he was too tiny to see, enough for people to think he had disappeared. But Matt wouldn't allow it, despite the fact how painful it was.

Matt went to the bed, gently laid down and wrapped his arms around Arthur, feeling the numbness and infinite pains. Mathew hugged him closer, listening to his interrupted and soundless inhaling and exhaling.

"In the night, dark are both you and I," under his breath Matt sang the melody-less melody, trying to fill, to fix and comfort another wailing soul and wan heart. The nake body pressed close to his just felt like home.

_In the night dark are both you and I._

It was Mathew's turn now, to protect him [- His need blessing God.]

* * *

**Only one more chapter left.**

**Thanks for reading/favouriting/alerting/reviewing. I appreciate them very much.  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**-X-X-X-**

His hands trailed along the back of Arthur's, feeling the curl of the man's spine, the heat radiating from the exposed skin comfortingly confusing him, because he didn't know if it were just his own increasing temperature. He felt his fingertips burning, leaving his mind flustered, his heart beating in its calm state as if this was right, this was meant to be.

And his touches were feather-like, as though he was afraid he would break this, break this beautiful skin, this beautiful, broken person. But his desire was strong, so strong that he was sure he could cross all boundaries to have this man, his Arthur. To embrace him and never let him out of his grip. And that thought, that urge scared him, for he knew he wanted it so badly, for he found no confusion in his need. Oh, the lack of hesitation in his mind, his heart.

[He felt like infatuated. Or he was infatuated.]

And he pressed his body close, clothes to nudity, and his heart almost burst, already soared, when they fitted together, as though being born for each other. And his arm wrapped around Arthur's waist, shifted oh so lightly so he could bury his nose into the lock of blond hair smelling like nights and wet grass. He allowed himself to relax, to just be still and be this forever. He knew Arthur wouldn't mind.

It was his dream anyway.

* * *

And Mathew woke up to the sound of a hissing kettle like it was angrily shaking him off his sleep, infuriated by his forbidden sweet sweet dream. He let his eyes wander to the empty space next to him, ignoring the hisses had stopped as someone lifted the kettle out of the gas stove, feeling his arms so bare, his stomach churning and his inside so hollow for the loss.

He listened to quiet footsteps padding around on the wooden floor; he smelt tea and burned toast for breakfast. His hand coiled into a fist, holding the sheet with the warmth – from a person who had laid here, wept here, and slept here, with him, in his arms – fading slowly away, his eyebrows knitted into a hard-line.

"You never ask for my name."

There was silence, a kind of silence when you didn't know if other people could hear you and reply back. A silence that made you greedy, made you hopeless and miserably angry.

Till Arthur spoke, breaking the silent air in the way Mathew was awed at, smoothing Matt in his suffocating insecurity. Sulk curled up and rested at the tip of his spine, the edge of his tongue and the creased line on his forehead. And Matt felt as though a petulant child.

"I don't want to."

And there was sadness.

Mathew felt like broken. Or he was broken.

But instead of tears, of kneeling to his shattered pieces of heart in surrender, he felt enraged. So enraged. Because Arthur was so cruel, Arthur was, in fact, vain as much as he was, because there was sadness. [Reason, reason, reason? Reason!] And because all Matt wanted to do was to hug him tight, hug him close until neither could breathe, until their sobbing sounds were no longer shameful.

So Matt bolted up on bed, jumped onto the floor in a manner he couldn't believe he was capable of [Alfred would laugh, laugh and laugh, and say "You're vain, bro, you're so vain"] and approached the older man, who sat on his chair with face passive, yet body stiff, green eyes stormy [And Matt could read the words in those eyes (Don't come near. Please don't come here - near me), so clear that he just wished to roar in frustration and anger and anguish; his blood rushed and heart swelled up, so hurt, loving was so hurting and he loved Arthur so much that it hurt]. Mathew stood tall, back straight and hands on both side curled into fists, like a soldier in this frustrating, stubborn battle, but fragile enough in the dark blue colour of his hues as if the soldier now ran into the dangerous zone unarmed, having nothing but the undying determination and stupidity of bravery.

"Why?" Mathew asked firmly, and he willed his voice not to sound hoarse and cracked.

Arthur didn't look at him for a while, and when he did, there was a cracking edge in his orbs, and Mathew found his world blurred like it was pulled into so many directions. The strength Arthur's slight broad shoulders showing off, the hard mind Arthur owned and the sharpness of his words and ways didn't, couldn't, wouldn't hide Arthur's vulnerability. At least not to Mathew; **never** to Mathew. For Matt saw it all, and he felt a bit more of pain and love in his chest.

Matt reached out his both hands, touching Arthur's both cheeks, and they both couldn't utter a single verbal thing [Not yet. Not now]. He breathed in Arthur's scent, realizing how much he had missed it. And their nose were so close they bumped into each other, mingling the air they shared, in this tiny flat, in this degraded building.

"Why," he said softly under his mixed breaths and looked Arthur in the eyes. Green melt with blue, they couldn't tear their eyes away. "I'm Mat-"

And there was palm covering his mouth, so fast, so startled a movement. Matt stared at Arthur, at Arthur's pure panic, at Arthur's widened fearful eyes. And Mathew swallowed his flinch, along with his cut off sentence yet the heavy lump in his throat refused to go.

Mathew hoped his eyes had conveyed his unasked question and his infinitely emotional agony.

And Arthur shook his head, minutely, green hues still wide, panic still presenting and making his palm tremble.

"Don't," Mathew's heart broke, at the desperation of the sound, "Don't." And there was no need for a please.

* * *

The fan above was whirling, made of steel, coppered and craved with patterns which caused it to look like an antique. The whirling sound mixed with the white noises flooding the air, oozing like blood from the wounded silence.

Mathew seated in a Victorian chair under and in all that, back put back into the luxurious red of the cushion, hands fold on one crossed leg. He seated like he owned the place, with a smooth face and a thin line of a dry smile, betraying nothing, unreadable.

"So, what do you think of that, Dr. Moran?" Mathew watched as the said man sitting across from him, separated with a hard wooden desk filled with medical notes, books and papers of God-know-what, trapped in his own office, cornered like an animal in his world by his own not-discreet-enough illegal 'work' these past few months, slowly sweating, the corner of his mouth tight, lips pale and eyes dialect, rough big hands shaking slightly – a defending act, against this horrid blow. "You're the personal doctor of my family and, my family, as you know, has this little… obsession with reputation. And you do realize that those things you've done recently for a profit you're so greedy to take are a bit not good to that so-called reputation. Especially when it's right under our noses. "

Mathew stopped, he looked at the folder in Dr. Moran's hands, containing papers that were so simple at the first glance, almost innocent-looking but could end one's life if it fell into the palm's of just the right person. Pieces of paper that he spent some hours with a few calls and researches accomplishing.

He supposed he must feel bad, because, in fact, Mathew wouldn't usually do things like this, black-mailing things. Too selfish, too fraudulent, yet extremely necessary. And he needed to do it for it was so very necessarily important, to achieve what he wanted.

"If my father knows, you can only imagine what will happen. Let just say he won't be very happy; he really doesn't like the idea of a traitor who might sell the projects of his company for another. I think he'll make sure that traitor will face the worst a human being can ever encounter. And that isn't pretty in the least, is it?"

"What do you want?" The question was snapping-y raspy, like the man was having trouble breathing, which indeed he was [or should be]. The spoken words were firm in a desperate need and quivering deeply in the old man's throat and word stresses.

Mathew's brows creased low; his dark eyes were stony and Moran flinched back before he could compose his older despicable self.

"Now **don't** talk to me in that tone. Don't forget I'm next to the line to run my father's 'empire' one day; if my father can do things, so can I. I don't approve of this action and surely will not let your little secret go unharmed. You should know better that people like you, I myself should crash into bit and punish into piece."

And Mathew meant it, every single word, in his famous quiet but powerfully weighted tone, making sure the other man understood that too. Moran did and Moran paled into an unhealthy shade, shaking and shaking.

He felt more and more disgusted at the person who was supposed to fix his family's health, not going around being a moronic traitor for petty money. No wonder they were all mad, all hauntingly broken. Living in a web of lies, inside and out. Mathew felt sick. "Letting this slide is _unthinkable_," he said with all teeth, almost spitting. And Moran looked at him, really looked, so sweaty now, hues so huge and so hopeless now.

Yet Mathew knew the man could hear the 'but'.

["Please…, what do you want, Mr. William?" - His name, just the way he prefered it.]

Mathew smiled and smiled and smiled, just like his father with a thin hardly twisting up lips [And Mathew hated it, hating it with every fiber of his being], reminding the man before him who he was dealing with one more graced time.

"But is _useable_."

* * *

Alfred's room was across from his, just as large and as empty. Mother had stripped all of his brother's posters down, repainted the walls and reloaded the furniture to be more 'suitable' with his brother's state. And Mathew found one more reason to despise her so much. He lost his brother once and when he came into the room, it was like the thing had just happened all over again, laughing and mocking, and Alfred in the middle of it all, was indifferent.

After two visits, Mathew couldn't stand it anymore.

* * *

Alfred's room was across from his, just as large and as empty.

His hand placed on the door in a hesitate moment, fingers curling against palm until the nails bit into the flesh, and then he fisted his hand tightly, sweeping his gaze all around the room before letting go of the hard wooden door.

And Mathew stepped into his brother's room for the first time in a very long time.

Alfred was sitting on his wheelchair, facing sideways to the window, the sunlight coming in pouring over his golden lock, kissing his unblinking eyes. He looked like he was infatuated-y enjoying the sight outside, looking like he was so deep in thought that he forgot to blink his lids just once.

But Mathew didn't fool himself with hope, didn't fool himself with mythical scene. He looked at his brother without a wink, carefully remembered and contemplated the lines of his figure, the build of his face and the way his brother's eyes did not shine.

His footsteps were unheard, silently moving on the carpeted floor until he stopped before his brother. And Mathew bent his back, hugging Alfred in a quiet embrace. To mend the broken link, to maintain the unbreakable bond. To hold back, hold fast what he had lost once. To reach the ones he loved when he finally overcame and fought against his fears.

[For the first time in a very long time.]

[And in that late morning, he just sat there with his brother after his 'visit' to one Dr. Moran, head titled to meet Alfred blanketed knee, telling Alfred about the life they had missed, about his Arthur, lights and stars, running-down departments and his vain love; his arrangement with Moran.

About a new beginning.]

* * *

"You're late," he said without any bite, just a reminder of a routine now. Mathew waiting by the door for Arthur when he had time to come over, Arthur going home late, Mathew saying [Even when he knew he was just being unreasonable. Arthur had a job, a job which requiring him to 'work' at any weird hour as possible, depending on the customers' needs. It destroyed him, to see Arthur sell his body treated roughly in rough lustful hands, to be so useless. (It took everything in him every time he stepped out of Arthur's door, for another strange man to step in, not to beat and strangle that man to death.) Life was not a fairy tale; he was not a knight in shining amour. "You're late" was what he could utter, what he could do to deal with his anger now; it was his bitterness, a little pay-back for things he couldn't do to prevent this; just an indirect selfish sentence to scoff softly, because Arthur wasn't the one to be blamed], Arthur ignoring, but Arthur did always make tea for maybe Arthur saw what he thought in the way his dark blue gaze locking on Arthur.

And in Arthur's own defense, it was Mathew's idea to wait, to wander round here and haunt his apartment; Arthur didn't have anything to do with it. And oh, how much Mathew disagreed [inwardly at least].

This had anything to do with Arthur.

[But how vain his love was, he still didn't know if his feelings were ever to be met. Yet to be with Arthur, Mathew didn't find it in himself to complain.]

Arthur made them both tea as usual, and because Mathew secretly filling Arthur's cabinet with Earl Grey, they never worried about what the older blond pointed out as "Mathew's coming here to drown dry Arthur's tea supply". [The older man, for once, seemed not to comment about the issue. But Mathew acknowledged he must be careful still if he didn't want to be kicked out, considering Arthur's reactions when he brought some take-away to him one day. If anyone knew how to explode while remaining so deadly calm in the face, it was his beloved Arthur.

("I don't want your charity, I manage my own meal just fine. Thank you very much.")

_His beloved…_

Oh.]

Mathew held the cup in his hands, enjoying the way warmth licking his palms, embracing his fingertips, smelling like Arthur. Matt watched as Arthur sipped his tea, memorizing how he sat so uncomfortably because his hips and other below parts were still hurting, how his hair looked ruffed, how tiredness worm its hands into the corners of his jade eyes, how lithe and thin Arthur always was, how the bruise on Arthur neck still didn't fade away from one customer.

[At that time Mathew had seen red, ragging and pained, there were ticking booms under his spine and right below his heart, lungs and throat tight as though hands had wrapped around them instead of Arthur's neck. He wished they had. But he held back, silently sitting next to the tub where Arthur curled himself under a stream of fallen frigid water.

He reached out a hand to touch his Arthur, to bring away the fear, the pain, to make sure Arthur was still there, not losing himself, not far away under any other's mercy. Arthur turned his head to land his eyes on him, they were so haunted that all Matt's breaths were stuck in his nostrils, unreleased air fill the lungs, burning.

"I had thought I was dead. When his hands tightened around my neck, taking all my breaths, I'd thought I was dead." – Green hues said, green hues whispered brokenly. And Matt had thought about that too, the as if when Arthur couldn't make his way out, the as if when Arthur laid cold with ugly horrific imprints as evidences for his…_death_.

And it was frightening.

Unthinkable.

But still not improbable.

Mathew fought hard, so very hard not to close his eyes with a shuddered inhale.

"I hit his head with a lamp, all shattered," Arthur continued to speak, even though he looked like he didn't want to, words escaped him, frightened-y even.

And Matt got Arthur out of the tub, stripping his wet clothes, wrapping him with blankets and towels and arms.

He didn't whisper "It's fine, everything's fine," because it was truly _not_.]

"How's your neck?" Mathew asked, as conversational as best, for Arthur always stiffened at his concern.

"Fine," Arthur replied, and something in Matt's posture made him add, "The throat didn't hurt anymore, still bruised though."

Mathew contemplated him for a moment, liking the way silence rolled over their shoulders, resting upon them as comfortable as a battered young fellow with tired but not strain smiles. "Do you have any siblings?"

Arthur was a work of defending acts, like his body was made to bear blows after blows, to fence himself from any attacks, always ready to brace and fight back, like he would never back down. Not easily at least. And Arthur was now building up his defense wall, all back straight, shoulders stiff and eyes reading. "Why do you ask?"

Ignoring his aching heart, Mathew kept on, "It's because of the way you act, sharing, scolding and caring and reminding me of everything like a chicken hen, hiding away the things you think will scar me for life." The tea went cold, "And sometimes, you look at me like you're seeing…a younger brother." Oh, the tea had gone cold.

Emerald eyes looked up, holding feelings Matt could not read, "His name's Peter. The one younger brother I had. The only one."

And in Matt's ribcage, his heart gave a soft jolt, and kept beating and beating and beating. Blue eyes held on green ones, searching. He wanted to ask, so badly.

[What am I to you, Arthur?]

"I've told you not to do that."

"Do what?" Matt said as though he hadn't known it already, innocent face with a little high voice, if adding comical wide eyes, they would make a good movie scene.

Arthur snorted, the sound like that snorting sound million years ago, when they had first met. Matt smelt cigarette smoke, wet ground and darkest place. "Ask me to ask your name." And Arthur smiled that dry smile of his, irises tingled, the lines on his brow tight and he leaned a bit forwards showing his neck with bruises and sharp collar bones.

Matt narrowed his eyes, but did shallow, "Don't dare me." His tongue wetted his lips minutely, his hands gripping determinedly. Arthur eyed him, tracing his feature like he tried to remember every contour, tried to remember this very moment they shared. Mathew's chest throbbed quietly, painfully, his breaths coming out silently and warmly and Mathew thought he would lose in the green world forever.

He didn't even recognize their hands had crossed all the distance to meet others, touching the tips of fingers.

"Why don't you?" Matt whispered, trailing Arthur's hands, his veins and his constant pulse, "Why don't you just ask?" [I'll give it to you, all of it I have.]

"I don't want to," Arthur closed his eyes like in great pain, like controlling his panic, "You've given me so much. I don't want to take it all from you. You've already done too much," And the warmth they conveyed in their body was mingled by their touching hands, rushed through the little contact, through vessels, hitting right to the heart, squeezing softly. "For a person like me."

Matt's eyes were suddenly heavy, blurred; he held Arthur's hands tight, his Adam's apple bobbed, "I don't mind. I don't care." He meant it, with his life and tightened heart and trembling soul ["I just want you. Just love only you."], and Arthur looked back at him, hues widening a little bit, eyebrows furrowed slightly, his mouth opening faintly as if he couldn't make out the words, as if he couldn't work out what he would say.

"Don't say anything, you don't need to," Mathew leaned closer, smiling and Arthur met him half way.

[In this district, this building, this place, electricity was something expensive, inconstant. Power cut happened now and then, at every weird hour and astounding moment as possible.

And when the light went out, they didn't even realize. And when the light went out, Mathew's hands trailed along Arthur's face, Arthur's outlines and skins. Everything of Arthur.

In the dark, between kisses, gasping breaths and hot and tender touches and vulnerabilities, Matt whispered, "You know the name, Arthur, say it, for me."

In the dark, Matt could still feel the wetness of Arthur's eyes, and he kissed the tears, kissing away the name coming out of Arthur's lips.

With a soaring heart.]

* * *

"You don't leave, do you?"

He asked, looked into Arthur's emeralds with all casual seriousness. And Arthur didn't laugh, but Arthur smiled, and Mathew memorized it, craved it deep into his mind.

"I don't know, Mathew, I don't know."

Matt ignored the way Arthur's eyes sweeping round the room. Full of wood. Easily burned into ashes.

[Arthur's breaths on his cheek were hot and tender like the morning sunlight falling into Arthur's window, changing its shapeless shape with their twisted and turned sheet between linking legs and covered bodies. He exhaled blissfully when Arthur combed his palm through his bed hair; he leaning into the touch.]

* * *

Brown, black, too dark green and red danced in his vision as he stood aside with an eyebrow lifted as though he didn't expect this, watching Dr. Moran handing his father a folder.

"I think with the health condition of the young master, Alfred, it'll be better if we send him to your private mansion in England. It's quite discreet and far from public eyes with better medical care." Moran said with nervous throat but implied tone, tone that Mathew had hated so much every time in the past when he and Alfred would stand side by side, huddling with anxiety as Moran glanced at them, informing their fate to his mother [a cold should be treated with closed rooms and separation, toothache should be a ban of sweetness, and the stomach one going along with hungry night... Childish fear, childish nightmare], yet not now, while it was doing its work.

Mathew ground his teeth vaguely, "Why don't let him be here? He is fine. Here."

And Moran narrowed his eyes, brows knitted, as Harriet snapped back at him, "I will let you talk into this when I see fit, son."

Matt willed his teeth not to bare, willing his voice not to growl like a barking angry dog, instead he answered in quiet, immediate, controlled voice, "Sorry, sir."

His father read the folder, thoroughly pages after pages and graced his gaze at Dr. Moran, "Send him there, careful with the press, I don't want to read it on the newspaper tomorrow. Do as you will."

Mathew felt his fingers tinged with rag curling up into his bone, whirling in his mind with relief like a storm, threatening to turn into a headache and a shout. So worthless they were to him - that man, their father - just equaling a folder, a glance and an order with half-thought.

Even if he composed himself , Mathew knew his eyes gave away his blazing feelings as Harriet spoke without looking up from the paper-work spreading around his large, hard desk. "You're going to England in the end of the year to handle the company there, aren't you? You'll be with Alfred. Aren't you _grateful_?"

And Mathew did grit his teeth, hands tensing in coiling state. "**Grateful?**" He spat, like barking, and Moran flinched the second time in his presence.

"You don't think I know you've arranged it," without any barks, Harriet raised his voice in a tense sound, words pressed to their last limitations. Dr. Moran stiffened, paling like a white pillar, almost trembling.

"I just do what you haven't finished," Mathew replied with equally hard tone, equally hard narrowed irises. Back straight with all teeth and claws, fighting back by his father's own poison. "I just clear what you haven't had the time to clean."

And he walked pass the soon-be-dead Moran, out of the door, turning his back and leaving his father alone to his own world.

* * *

[He went to Alfred's room to pack his brother's things, kissing him fiercely on the forehead, the corner of his eyes wet but never had a tear fallen.]


	4. Chapter 4

**[-XXX-]**

Mathew stepped down the stairs in front of the mansion, a car waiting for him to depart. Day was still heavy with sleep, wrapping itself in a foggy blanket, faint lights from bonny arms of the sun stretching out through morning frost, running warm fingers across things. He breathed in the slightly chilly air which tinged his throat and cooled his lungs.

The faint layer of fog touched his lips like a chaste and wet kiss, and his heart miss-beating for a moment.

[Arthur's hands found his face, caressing and leaving his heart falling and falling as Arthur lips met his forehead, his nose and his two waiting lips. And Matt returned just as eager.

"Don't go."

Mathew said between short breaths, he leaned out of the kisses, pressing one to Arthur's eyelids, stealing away the pain and the decision, embracing the love.

"Come with me."]

"Your things were ready," a stainless voice resounded behind him, like glass and contained. He turned round and looked at his mother, at her still blond hair and her sharp and sad blue eyes. He didn't give her a smile. He didn't ask where his father was. Because however much time it would take, something remained unchanged.

"We should depart now, young master William," his driver informed dutifully and he stared into his mother's face. He approached her for the first time this day, the first time this life and gave her a hug. And his mother wrapped him up with her delicate hands in a harsh grip, he tried not to grimace, "Come back to visit if you can." Her tone was possessively demanding, cutting, and cracking. He nodded, but he knew and he thought she did too that he wouldn't. "Take care of Alfred."

And he kissed her on one of her temple, hard. The fingers on his coat tightened, digging crimson nails into his clothed back, but he stepped away from her grasp, without a look back, down to his car.

He reached into his coat's pocket, searching and gripping oh so tenderly the note he had tucked there, safe and unforgotten, the note he had found on the door of Arthur's flat, as the car drove away.

Mathew looked out the window, scenery passed, and the sun rose high.

* * *

**Fin.**


End file.
